Skidmore Madlibs "My Friday Night"

fridaynight

By Nicole Smith, Pulp co-editor

My Friday Night

It began when I invited my ____ (noun)_____ over to my house at around 7 p.m. I was _____(adverb)___ cooking a dinner of _____(food)___ for the both of us when my friend asked us what we should ___(verb )___ tonight. I decided to text ____(person)___ to see what they were doing tonight. They replied that they were going to __ __(place)___ and suggested that we come along. Once we arrived, we immediately began ___(verb ending in –ing)___ and ___(verb ending in –ing)___. We soon become bored of this and decided to go to ___(place)___. So we called a ____(noun)___ and _ __(verb)___there. When we arrived, everyone was ____(verb ending in-ing)___. We stayed all night and had a lot of ____(noun)____. Everything turned into a ____(adjective)____ mess. We had no idea where we were or how to get home. We ended up getting lost in ___(place)___ for ____(number)___ ____(unit of time)___. Finally! We arrived at home, were both of us had a ____(adjective)___ night sleep, until tomorrow.

Ariadne's Ambivalence (A poem contributed by Folio)

shadow By Halley Furlong-Mitchell,

 

I warned you: I would snore. You could have just rolled me over in the night.

No need for abandonment.

 

Now I am haunted by Meadowlands, gray Subarus, black hair––

 

A god has come. I am to be his wife.

He knows nothing of half-lives or untangling.

 

I fuck him

but I still feel the imprint of your palm on my back.

Tell me: is it just the rain outside or did I hear you

breathe there just now, my old shadow––

Folio is Skidmore's oldest student-run literary magazine. We accept and publish work digitally on a rolling basis, and we publish a print issue at the end of every academic year. The submission deadline for this year's reading period is March 23, 2015. Submissions of any type (fiction, poetry, non-fiction, photography, art, etc.) should be sent as separate attachments to folio@skidmore.edu. Learn more about Folio and the work we produced from our Facebook page and our publication website, and keep your eyes peeled for our print publication, which will be distributed in April.

Blurbs Overheard

  blurbs overheard

By Cara Dempsey, Pulp Co-Editor

“PB&J Tacos. Yes?” Overheard in Case

“As a concept, eyeliner eludes me.” Overheard in the atrium

“You have enough allergies for all of us.” Overheard in Northwoods

"What goes on a resume? I think folding neat omelets says a lot about me.” Overheard in the library

"It's like, that's him. That's my guy. Number three. Like basketball, y'know?" Overheard in Case

Horoscopes

By: Marie Civitello, '17, Contributing Writer PISCES

The possibility of true love awaits you around every corner, dear Pisces. The saucy beat of a tango might be playing in the background when you lock eyes with ‘The One’. Perhaps your eyelashes will be sparkling with fresh snowflakes when you bump into them on the way to class. You may be sitting alone in D-hall, struggling to lift a quivering forkful of peas to your mouth when they suddenly appear at your side. This is your month to shine, Pisces, but do not smile too bright—you have a pea stuck between your front teeth.

AQUARIUS

Beware of the trashcans, Aquarius. They contain spiteful, football-sized squirrels. These freaks of the rodent kingdom plot against you.

TAURUS

Taurus, have you called your mother recently? She has not heard from you in a while and figured you had finally left the nest for good. Uncle Lester (yes, the one with the obstructed nasal passageways) is moving into your room, but do not worry, you can have the trundle bed.

CANCER

A Hallmark card from your grandmother featuring an ominously grinning pony and the words “Happy Heart Day” is waiting in your mailbox, Cancer. Happy Valentine’s Day.

VIRGO

Your next-door neighbor just purchased new subwoofers, metallic purple leggings and a full-length mirror. Dear Virgo, your nights of restful sleep are over.

SCORPIO

Remember that humorous email you sent your RA about raising a gopher colony in your room, Scorpio? Well, they took it seriously. You thought you were friends, but that was just too much, too soon. Res Life is now keeping a file on you, and is closely watching your comings and goings.

LIBRA

Your enthusiastic claims to “love winter” will falter this month, Libra. But not to worry - only two more months of bitter arctic winds and patches of reptilian, wind-chafed skin.

GEMINI

Yes, your metallic purple leggings look fantastic and the late-night dance sessions are a great way to boogie your troubles away—but can you keep it down? Sleep-deprived Virgo next door is seeking revenge.

ARIES

The smell of D-hall veggie burgers will trail you like an evil aura this month, Aries. Expect concerned glances from strangers.

LEO

Thanks to your dislike of vacuuming, the apple from last semester that you forgot behind your fridge has sprouted. A lucrative apple business is foreseen in your near future.

CAPRICORN

You might think stomping in the room above you is inconsiderate; it’s actually Morse code. Stay tuned for important announcements.

SAGITTARIUS

Your parents are planning a trip to Barbados for spring break, Sagittarius. With Crystalline waters, sun-soaked beaches and not a snowflake to be seen; they are so glad they have you to watch the cats while they are away!

Riff-Raff's Guide to Self-Reconciliation

Article By: Taylor Ray ’17, Contributing Writer Using the label ‘Versace’ to describe everyday objects and occurrences, Riff Raff gives us a peek into the marvelous real of his world. We are all Riff Raff. You and I both lust after shots of iced buttermilk ranch, but we would never admit it to an audience of strangers.

Riff Raff would ignore your childhood pediatrician just like your mother did: he can grow three inches taller in his thirties if he so chooses. Your mother scoffed at the doctor when, post-puberty, your head climbed higher and higher on the stadiometer every visit. Your mother loves to be right. Your mother is Riff Raff.

Riff Raff is a collection of quick-cuts of major U.S. city skyscrapers against a trendy beat. Riff Raff doesn’t want any rules. Riff Raff wants two dozen oysters. He is a performer, but post-stage, he thinks: I don’t want my performances to define me. He is an introvert.

Riff Raff can be awkward at the dinner table. He knows that he is being watched, even by his friends. But Riff Raff is in his element, almost completely candid and comfortable in front of the camera, when his big and small talk reflects the parts of life that he is most passionate about. He falls into the comfortable pattern of sauces — barbecue, sweet and sour, honey mustard — and loses himself, almost forgetting his audience. Sauce is the soup du jour. Sometimes, Riff Raff thinks about gender roles and how they have influenced him as a man. He is still learning to check his privilege. He fills online shopping carts only to exit out of Google Chrome without a purchase or a second thought. Riff Raff is a little bit embarrassed about his self-affirmations taped to the mirror — he’s only trying to be more introspective lately. Riff Raff has trouble saying “I love you” in a sincere and meaningful way to those around him. He ordered a Warby Parker home try-on. Riff Raff wakes up before his alarm every morning.

What do we see in Riff Raff? Ourselves. We should be so  lucky enough to chew on life with the same vigor with which Kody and Jody Husky chew on their Versace bones. Life can be neon if you let it.

Creek

DSC_0022Photograph by: Nicole Smith '16, Pulp Editor

Story By: Douglas Patrick '18, Contributing Writer

The Late evening sun beats down on me as I sit on this rickety wooden bench. I watch the hot orange ball in the sky fall slowly beneath the trees that surround me and the Creek. There’s a certain kind of gloom that the last rays of sun give off. Today, those rays seem to beam especially strong.

My thoughts began to trickle with the water in front of me. It’s stupid that people automatically assume that something’s wrong if someone declines an invitation somewhere. There’s nothing wrong, not with me at least. Just because I’d rather ride my bike down to the Creek than go over Tom’s house with my friends doesn’t mean that I’m depressed or something. But I guess my friends just can’t accept that because my phone hasn’t stopped vibrating for the past couple hours. I wish they would stop calling me. I need time alone, time to think.

The Creek was not my original destination this afternoon, I recollected. I had gotten on my bike earlier with every intention of going to Tom’s. Except once I got up to his driveway I immediately turned around. I knew I wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eyes and that’s why I cancelled our plans without a word. So, maybe the constant calls of concern are justified, but I still don’t like them.

The bike ride to Tom’s house had once been supremely familiar. I still remembered how I’d sit on my bike, watch the garage door rise and gear up for my journey down to my best friend’s house every Saturday morning. The latter portion of these rides were the ones that I remembered best. Not because they had happened much more recently, because they hadn’t. Come to think of it, this particular morning’s ride was the first time I had made the pilgrimage in a year or so, although it seemed longer. I could remember the latter rides better because I was able to experience this great ecstasy that was created by the wind as it blew through my hair; a luxury I wasn’t afforded until after I deemed myself old enough to leave my helmet home. When a burst of wind rustles my hair now, I reminisce about letting my bike glide around the tight, flowing curves of the open road that led to Tom’s. I’d try my luck by taking each bend with my tires nearly touching the protective lip of the street. When I did this, I’d be able to look down the steep leaf-infested hill to the Creek. It was nearly a ninety-degree angle straight to the water. Even just looking down at it, I got the sensation that it was sucking me in like a black hole.

Today’s path was going to be slightly different for I was picking up Paul at his house so we could ride together. Unfortunately, this wasn’t because Paul didn’t know the way to Tom’s. In fact, he probably had a better memory of it than I did, to tell the truth. He had been making this trip more often and more recently ever since he and Tom became connected at the hip about a year or so ago.

It seemed like as soon as Tom made the varsity baseball team, Paul became his second half. He was this “super cool upperclassman” that I just “had to meet,” according to Tom. So, naturally, I did, when Tom invited him with us to a movie. After that, Tom started to mention the funny things Paul did at practice or after school. Then it seemed that Paul kept getting invited more and more to our plans until I became the one getting invited to their plans. Eventually, I wasn’t even being invited at all. It was bizarre when I realized that, although he was still mine, Tom had replaced me for a new best friend.

The inside jokes Paul and Tom referenced at the lunch table made me burn with wonder as I questioned whether Tom was ever even my friend to begin with. Maybe, I’d think too often, I mistakenly perceived friendliness for friendship because we never went to baseball games like he and Paul did. We didn’t both “absolutely love” 90’s rock like he and Paul did. We didn’t play baseball, talk about girls, or text like they did either. We did, however, not talk to each other for weeks at a time so that’s one point to chalk up on our side.

Tom and I did still talk from time to time, though. Surprisingly, the last time we talked, a couple of days ago, he invited me over. He probably only did this because I hinted that I was upset. I explained that I felt as if we were drifting apart, so he must have felt obligated to assuage the small wound he gave me. But, I was still invited over to his house nonetheless. In actuality however, this little wound was a bigger scar than I let on in conversation – I’m really quite good at downplaying things.

Unluckily for me, Paul was invited over too, which was why I had to stop for him along the way. I wished the entire time to be riding with nearly anybody else. Mostly, just because I wanted a calm ride down the bends accompanied by the white noise of my tires spinning over the top of the pavement. Sadly, I was going to be out of luck because I knew that Paul’s energetic body wasn’t going to allow for even a moment of silence. He seemed to be in constant motion: his knee would bounce up and down in class for what seemed like hours, his fingers tapped on anything they could find, and his mouth never stopped moving. Sometimes I wasn’t sure how he found time to swallow.

Though in front, he faced me countless times to shout at me while he rode his bike.

“You hear about who the Indians just picked up!?”

“No.”

He turned back to the road for half a moment and then shot around again, “How about the Red Sox’s pitchers this year? Absolutely incredible, huh?”

“They’re alright,” I replied coldly.

Quickly after, he sensed a curve was coming and, thankfully, rotated back around. I thanked the heavens every time his stupid face stopped staring at me. I didn’t much care about the rubbish he kept yelling, but I will admit that I was impressed by his intuition to predict each new turn.

After gliding around a bend, he straightened his bike to the street and readied himself to turn around once more. Another turn approached quickly.

“Dude,” he called to me, “I’m so pumped!”

“Why is that?”

“Tom and I just got tickets to see this awesome Nirvana cover band!”

“That does sound awesome. What are they called?”

“The Negative Creeps! I’ve only heard good things about them!”

“Great. I haven’t heard of them. Where are they playing at?”

“Actually, I’m not totally sure yet! I would think –“

A loud shriek cut him off. His tires collided with the lip of the road, which sent him flying down the hill, leading to the Creek. Maybe I should have stopped asking him questions.

I kept peddling. Naturally, I thought, an athletic guy like Paul would be able to catch up with lazy me. However, upon arrival in Tom’s driveway, I looked around and couldn’t find Paul anywhere around me or in the distance. Then a chilling thought came over my entire body that scared the hell out of me.

And that’s why I’m sitting on this old bench trying to think and figure it out as I listen to the Creek’s splashing water. I wasn’t racking my brain trying to figure out what happened to Paul – anyone with half a brain knew what had happened to him. It didn’t take a detective to figure that out. Instead, I sit staring into this bloody Creek while I try to comprehend why I feel so good about his death.

 

 

 

 

 

Blurbs Overheard

  Just a few blurbs overheard

By Jenn Florence, Pulp Editor

"Think about it. Witch doctors in a target parking lot." Overheard in Northwoods

"I'm not an animal. I'm an accent." Overheard in Zankel

"Field guide to Americans: white power hairstyles" Overheard in the library

"Existentialism is a more productive nihilism." Overheard in Northwoods

"I missed my appointment with the CDC. I hope that's not a metaphor for my future." Overheard in Case

Blurbs Overheard

"I may be taking a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to school, but I'm no child." Overheard in Case "You're going to have to start converting your money to more concrete things. Like diamonds." Overheard in Sussman

"Buttholes are forever." Overheard outside Joto

"My mom periodically sits me down and tells me that I'm going to die from my diet, and I still don't fuck with eggnog." Overheard in Northwoods

"There was a ship running from Canada to America filled with Ulysses and gin." Overheard Off Campus

"There is nothing about me that screams." Overheard Off Campus

 

Tryptich

Klonopin Prescribed for anxiety and morning sadness, it sets you in a sort of halo but leaves the pebble in your heart.

She Told Me

"spend time in my shoes" but pride will have me barefoot unrepentant child

On Studying

See how her cheeks blush so feverishly, hands tremble as she paces and sighs repeatedly.

Some would call it love, but she knows it’s only the amphetamines.

 

A False or Unusual Sense of Being

There was a period of my life during which I was so happy that I could not sleep. The second night, sleep was already such a mysterious object of desire that I worried it would elude me for the rest of the week. I woke up before dawn broke and wondered to the red lines on my alarm clock, is this okay? I was so happy that I listened to piano covers of pop songs with the sound turned up loud, through my earphones.I ate dried peas and thought, I should write this in my journal, in one of the recent empty pages. But it’s hard to write about your day when you can’t find the right pen. I wrote about feeling guilty that I drain the lightbulb in my salt lamp a lot on the nights when I don’t want to even attempt the sprint from the lightswitch to my bed. I listened to “Hometown Glory” and wondered if I had now become both a morning and a night person, that is, a person who is wide awake and willing to jerk her body around at both times. I had spent the previous weekend reading and reading and reading after an anxious realization that if I wanted to go home for a long weekend, I had to do some reading ahead of time. I did a week’s worth in those two days: If you switch from reading to studying every half hour, you can read this entire book long before it’s due. But I forced myself to do much more than was necessary, because it feels great to cross tasks out in Sharpie until you cannot see what the original task was. A long dash across the entire day is also useful.

Because I had spent the weekend thinking about the near future (which was a little more than a week away), I was focused on meeting the future and nothing could get in my way before I was on the future’s doorstep. I mean the garage door, because there’s a spider’s nest strung across our side doorway and I’m willing to bet it has made it through September, just as I have. Sleep, then, was useless to my reading eyes (although not during the weekend, apparently). I spent one bad night feeling the air duct in my room and sighing loudly. The next night, after blurred words and “a false or unusual sense of well-being,” I was much more cautious and made a point to not step on sleep’s toes.

 

-Taylor Ray

 

Image Source: http://hypemuch.com/2013/04/03/paintings-surreal-sleep-drunk-vademecum-by-tania-blanco/

Deathwatch on the Southside

In a blue room, I sit in facingan ashless brick fireplace, devoid of cardinal movement. Ulysses hangs in the entrance to the light blue house on Davis Avenue-

It is spring, a few birds flit and perch on the branches of empty trees, easily seen as the bearings I feel I lost somewhere along the line I was taught to walk by those supposedly wiser than myself.

I’m not alone in this room, though, there are three of us: two others sit beside me, every person contemplating survival in some future as we bootleg our way to salvation with each knife to the cutting board and scratch and cut and gasp of a needle taken from the record’s grasp and grooves too hastily.

I am among friends and feel alone but it a warm loneliness, a deep melancholy highlighted by a thin strip of sunshine, when I arrive at the conclusion that it is not so terrible to feel alone because it cannot not last forever.

I only have to look to my right to find comfort in two parallel minds or swing my eyes around the room, suddenly energized to spend an hour organizing the stacks of books that litter the living room

but then I will inevitably begin to read.

which is not bad, I don’t condemn it I just have a very active imagination and get attached to characters pretty quickly. Their world becomes mine for as long as I can remain there because sometimes its just easier to hide for while in a nearby galaxy but the problem is books end too, just like loneliness before it.

I delight in the words I find but know they cannot last forever. They are given brief life, small brilliance in the animation of my neurons, but inevitably perish as my

eyes leave their inky forms.

 

 

Blurbs Overheard

Just a few blurbs overheard  

 

“Alcohol: making you passionate about things you don’t care about.”

“You seem depressed, you should hold this crystal.”

“He was just smiling and smiling. He had so many teeth.”

“Bitch, my love goes 16 credits deep.”

“You like adjectives too much.”

“Part of why we have sex is because we’re afraid of dying.”

Blurbs Overheard

Just a few blurbs overheard “I’m just being gender normative. You should try it sometime.” - Overheard in Palamountain

“Books are the superior form of technology.”  -Overheard in the English Department

“I believe we write for the dead.” - Overheard in Palamountain

“Mom...that’s not punk rock.” -Overheard off campus

“I’ll release the bees, bitch.”  -Overheard on perimeter road

The Realities of Form

Hand with Reflecting Sphere, M.C. Escher (1935)  

 

Woman

Woman, bound by beauty- Melt the silver from your wrists, ears, fingers and instead fix intelligence around your neck not as an adornment or justification, but as a symbol of your conscious independence.

&

 

The Name Game

Nonchalant on the way to the bathroom he said "we’re all girls here"

He takes his testosterone on Tuesdays; the alliteration seems to fit the occasion.

&

 

A Visit to the Plastic Surgeon for Remedios Varo

Ferdinand turned to the kindly creature jacketed by starched white robes, its teeth bleached perfectly to match- with the flourish of his hand, the pleasant golem 
flashed a smile spinning his apocryphal tales of patients that he’d personally rescued from the tattered rags they called a life, how with a gentle shaping of their body he could p-pop a failed relationship back into place, how stunning they could be after a quick crack with a hammer to the bridge of the nose and maybe a little filling of facial cartilage, nothing too violent, no, just enough scraping to shape the jaw bone-

(he mentioned of course that he believed all his clients beautiful, naturally before restoring them to an approximate self)

But Ferdinand wasn’t listening, too busy marveling at his attempt at perfection proffered by those friendly tombstone teeth and offered himself too willingly,
 thinking i will be young forever

"Avoid Compulsively Making Things Worse"

He works the daylight hours.The artist mends rifts in

trend in an attempt to render a better make than the current model

and wishes cynicism were only temporary. Still

he scans, canvas dripping a face from the crowd

now left to the imagination, eyes unrealized as he lifts his head

from the surface of oil fingers saturated

but with a nod, consciousness intent to drop other thoughts his

way like hindsight bombs foresight anxieties

send him another taken way his mind, diverted, forgets

the shape and color of the eyes in recall as he moves forward,

faster, sitting shivering in the breeze of scrutiny,

mutinously studious and reduced to the pursuit of serenity though

painting an unstoppable slave to happiness

with a bowl of rice and beans set by the easel, its easy to

see why the pictures have been painting themselves